The Chase:Briar U

By: Elle Kennedy


Our other roommate, Hunter, is dancing with three girls. Yup, three. They’re all but licking his face off, and I’m pretty sure one has a hand down his pants. Hunter, of course, is loving it.

What a difference a year makes. Last season he was uneasy about all the female attention, said it made him feel a bit sleazy. Now, it appears he’s perfectly cool taking advantage of the perks that come with playing hockey for Briar University. And trust me, there’re plenty of perks.

Let’s get real—athletes are the most fuckable guys on most college campuses. If you’re at a football school, chances are there’s a line of jersey chasers begging to blow the quarterback. Basketball school? The groupie pool doubles and triples in size when March Madness comes around. And at Briar, with a hockey team that has a dozen Frozen Four championships under its belt and more nationally televised games than any other college in the country? The hockey players are gods.

Except for me, that is. I play hockey, yes. I’m good at it, definitely. But “god” and “jock” and “superstar” are terms I’ve never been comfortable with. Deep down, I’m a huge nerd. A nerd masquerading as a god.

“Hunter’s got game.” Summer is studying Hunter’s entourage.

The DJ has switched the beats from electronic garbage to Top 40 hits. Blessedly, he’s also turned down the volume, probably in anticipation of the nearing countdown. Thirty more minutes and I can make my escape.

“He does,” I agree.

“I’m impressed.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely. Greenwich boys are usually secret prudes.”

I wonder how she knows Hunter is from Connecticut. I don’t think I’ve seen them exchange more than a few words tonight. Maybe Dean told her? Or maybe—

Or maybe it doesn’t frickin’ matter how she knows, because if it did matter, then that means the weird prickly sensation in my chest is jealousy. And that, frankly, is unacceptable.

Summer does another visual sweep of the crowd and blanches. “Oh my God. Gross.” She cups her hands to create a microphone, shouting, “Keep your tongue in your own mouth, Dicky!”

Laughter sputters out of me. No way Dean could’ve heard her, but I guess he possesses some sort of sibling radar, because he abruptly pries his lips off his girlfriend’s. His head swivels in our direction. When he spots Summer, he gives her the finger.

She blows a kiss in return.

“I’m so glad I’m an only child,” I remark.

She grins at me. “Naah, you’re missing out. Tormenting my brothers is one of my favorite pastimes.”

“I’ve noticed.” She calls Dean “Dicky,” a childhood nickname that a nicer person would have stopped using years ago.

On the other hand, Dean’s nickname for Summer is “Boogers,” so maybe she’s right to torture him.

“Dicky deserves to be tormented tonight. I can’t believe we’re partying in Brooklyn,” she grumbles. “When he said we were ringing in the New Year in the city, I assumed he meant Manhattan—but then he and Allie dragged me to horrible Brooklyn instead. I feel duped.”

I snicker. “What’s wrong with Brooklyn? Allie’s dad lives around here, doesn’t he?”

Summer nods. “They’re spending the day with him tomorrow. And to answer your question—what isn’t wrong with Brooklyn? It used to be cool, before it got overrun by hipsters.”

“Hipsters still exist? I thought we were done with that nonsense.”

“God, no. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She mock shudders. “This whole area is still teeming with them.”

She says “them” as if they’re carriers for a gruesome, incurable disease. She might have a point, though—a thorough examination of the crowd reveals a large amount of vintage attire, painfully skinny jeans on men, retro accessories paired with shiny new tech, and lots and lots of beards.

I rub my own beard, wondering if it places me in the hipster camp. I’ve been rocking the scruff all winter, mostly because it’s good insulation from the bitter weather we’ve been experiencing. Last week we got hit by one of the worst Nor’easters I’ve ever seen. I almost froze my balls off.

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